The Beautiful Ones

by Kody Boye

  “The dress. It’s—it’s too tight.”

  “No, my dear. It isn’t.”

  I attempt to regain control of my breathing as she ushers me along, but find it nearly impossible to do so in light of the situation. A thousand thoughts and more continue to bombard my consciousness. How will we get there? What will it be like? Will we walk? Will we travel by vehicle or train? Just how, exactly, will we make it? And, I wonder: What of Daniel? How might he be taking all of this?

  I am unable to think on it for long, as soon, we are stepping toward the glass doorways we’d entered onto the Red Carpet through. Each pane has been meticulously tinted to ensure that no one can see through.

  Mother Terra takes hold of my shoulder and spins me so I can look at her. “Listen to me,” she says, her voice gentle but full of urgency. “Once we make our way out these doors, there’s going to be a long black vehicle with dark windows. I want you to walk out there as fast as you can without looking back or to either side of you. Think of it as a game if you have to, but under no circumstances are you to slow down in the slightest. The SAD agents are going to be releasing smoke grenades to make sure that you can’t be seen. Do you understand?”

  “What are—”

  “There’s no time for questions. On my mark.”

  She releases her hold on my arms.

  “One,” she begins.

  I inhale a deep breath.

  “Two,” she continues.

  I take hold of and then lift my skirt.

  “Three,” she intones.

  And brace myself for what is to come.

  “Go!”

  The doors open.

  I run out.

  A series of loud bangs! shatters the silence of the afternoon just as my platform shoes land on the bare asphalt where the red carpet is supposed to be.

  As I run, careful not to breathe in the smoke that appears out my peripheral, I see, in the distance, a lone black vehicle with very dark windows, just as Mother Terra said I would. While running, I hear cries of disdain, of malice, of fury for the SADs having ruined the photojournalists’ perfect shots, and take pride in the fact that I’ve a moment of mercy for the time being.

  But, I realize: a moment is only a moment, and I must make my way to the vehicle as fast as I can.

  Pumping my legs, holding my breath, struggling to keep my stomach taut against the fine fabric of the corset—I run, with precision I could have never imagined, toward the black vehicle, then watch in mute fascination as the door opens upon my approach.

  I lift my skirt.

  I slide inside.

  I pull the dress in with me and deposit its ruffled edges along the vehicle’s spotless black floor.

  Then the door is closing and we are beginning to move.

  “What about Mother Terra?” I ask, turning to face whom I now realize is the man who opened the door for me.

  “She will be arriving in a separate vehicle,” he says. “Fear not, Honored Bride. You, and she, will arrive soon.”

  Honored Bride? I think. Is that what I’ve been elevated to? A title beyond my wildest comprehension? It’s hard to imagine that I am the one who is getting married—who, on this day forth, will be lawfully wedded to none other than Daniel Cross—and it is even harder to imagine that it will occur in what is likely to be less than a half-hour.

  My mind races.

  My heart thumps.

  My fingers begin to drum along my knees in anticipation for what is to come next.

  I do not know what will happen, or the sequence of events that are to occur. That is perhaps the most terrifying thing. To know that I am to stand testament to the Process behind a glass wall through which nothing can be thrown, words or otherwise, is mind-boggling. To know that they will speak of me and Daniel is one thing, but to know that it could potentially impact the rest of my life?

  The corpse bride—

  Hanging, from a noose—

  Taut, suspended, neck broken, life ended—

  I shake my head to dispel the image within my mind and look out the tinted window.

  Outside, there are many vehicles, within which I instinctively know are many SAD agents, all armed to the tooth and nail and dressed in body armor so fierce that nothing could ever harm them, not even bullets. This, while reassuring, does not dispel my fear. If anything, it makes it even worse.

  I want to tell myself to remain calm—to acknowledge the fact that all this security is present to ensure that I am safe and sound—but realize that cannot happen. I must be silent as a bird, I know, and remain pretty, only speaking when necessary.

  The claustrophobia is mind boggling.

  We turn onto a street that I am completely unfamiliar with and watch as the high-rise apartment buildings that Wednesday Givings has previously pointed out give way to open sky.

  “What are we—” I start to say.

  Then I see it: the Dome, large and prosperous, high and mighty, with blue glass that reflects light for seemingly miles. Were I a bird, I would be blinded; but since I’m not, I can only remain stunned where I am from my place on the ground.

  “That’s it,” I say, to no one in particular. “That’s the Dome.”

  “Yes, miss,” the man seated next to me replies. “That is the Dome.”

  “Where I’ll be married.”

  “Yessum.”

  “Are there many people?” I ask, turning to face the man. “I mean, waiting for me?”

  “You’ll see once we get there,” he says.

  And I will, too. This I know for certain, for my face has inspired the masses, has captured their attention, has arrested their minds, and for that reason I will not simply go ignored.

  As we begin to approach and then round the streets that surround the Dome, we come to stop at a nondescript building that connects it with a stark white tunnel.

  Almost immediately we are surrounded by SAD agents, all bearing the same tower shields to block out any prying eyes.

  “I will open the door,” he says, rising and then crossing the expansive back seat to take hold of the handlebar that separates us from the outside world. “Once I am out, you will remove yourself from the vehicle as well.”

  “And then?”

  “Revered Mother Chun will escort you into the connecting building.”

  I nod as he glances out the window I am seated beside—as he acknowledges the outside world for what it’s worth.

  He opens the door, steps out, turns to face me, and says, “Now.”

  The daylight is blinding as I step out of the vehicle and onto the pavement. Careful to lift my skirt as to not damage it while walking, I nod to the man and turn to look at the backs of the SAD agents blocking all eyes from seeing me.

  “Kelendra!” a voice calls.

  I turn just in time to see Mother Chun approaching.

  “Are you ready?” she asks.

  I can only nod.

  After reaching down, taking hold of my hand, and offering me a smile that I swear could have raised kingdoms, she turns and begins leading me toward the connecting building.

  Inside, the small, square room is lit only by a single bulb. A multitude of people stand at the ready to ensure I am ready. Among them is Mother Terra, as well as Stylus and Harmony.

  “Good,” Mother Terra says. “Now—check to ensure that she is properly ready.”

  Though Harmony and Stylus descend on me, my attention is set on the Revered Mother before me.

  “What will happen,” she says, “after you are done, is that you will enter this door—” she points toward the doorway closest to us “—and allow your skirt to fall.”

  “Your train is being attached now,” Harmony says.

  “And your veil to cover your face,” the Revered Mother continues. “Once you are within the connecting tunnel, you will be at the mercy of every single camera that exists within the Glittering City. Do not pause to look at them. Do not give them direct eye contact. Do not respond to any gesture you see or any words
you may think you will hear. You will simply walk forward, back straight, head high, and make your way into the Dome’s inner chamber.”

  “What then?” I ask.

  “You will be in the presence of the other Beautiful Ones within the city, all one-hundred-and-fifty of them.”

  “And Daniel? What of him?”

  “He is being prepped in the connecting tunnel opposite of us. He, too, will walk as you do, until he reaches the chamber. Then the Father will come forward and deliver you into one another’s arms.”

  I nod, and resist the temptation to sink my teeth into my lower lip.

  Mother Terra steps forward to grace my bare upper arms with her hands and leans forward to look me in the eyes. “Are you ready?” she asks.

  “I… I think so,” I say.

  “Good,” she replies. She looks down at the communications device on her wrist and pushes a series of buttons. She then lifts it and says, “Mother Merissa? Yes. The Honored Bride is ready for her entrance into the connecting tunnel.”

  As ready as I’ll ever be, I want to say, but remain silent instead.

  Mother Terra lowers her wrist, smiles, then approaches a single metal door and allows her hand to hover over a large red button. “Prepare yourself,” she says. “Your wedding is about to begin.”

  I swallow.

  I nod.

  I brace myself for what is to come.

  Mother Terra then, without a moment’s hesitation, slams her hand down upon the big red button.

  The door opens.

  Light floods in.

  I lift my skirt and begin to walk, all without looking back.

  It is only when the door slams shut behind me that I realize how trapped I’ve become.

  It hits me before I can even begin to anticipate it.

  The lights, the flashes, the calls that are so distorted I cannot hear them—they are like bolts of lightning firing off in quick succession, and cause me to stop dead in my tracks.

  I am like an animal in this moment—cornered, alone, and cold beyond measure—and though safe as I am within a bulletproof glass tunnel, there is nothing I can do to escape their persecution.

  With each flash from the photojournalist’s camera a realization is born.

  First comes the knowledge that I am to be married, second the recollection that I have been brought here by a barbaric purpose designed to make the world whole and beautiful, the third a sentiment that I have left my friends and family behind. The fourth—which is perhaps the most sinister of them all—is that I will soon be the host for a child that I do not wish to bear.

  As I stand, hands in my skirt to hold it up from the floor, I tremble—not because I am afraid, but because I am angry over every freedom that has been stripped for me.

  Be calm, my mother would have said were she here, for this is what fate had in store for you.

  “Mama,” I whisper.

  My single word—silent beyond these four walls—will likely be captured in magazines and in books and on screens forever. What they will say I do not know, but what I have said only I will know. That is the curse that has befallen me, for now, I am completely, utterly, and totally alone.

  It is with great sorrow that I begin to make my way down the corridor. Dappled with morning sunlight, it sparkles through the glass and twinkles across my vision as I make my way toward my assumed destiny. All around me the stars appear to be shining, but they are not really stars; and before me there lies a great light at the end of the tunnel, beckoning me forward.

  If I can just make it there—if I can just hurry before I am in the presence of what few people I know at hand—

  Sadly, speed is not of the essence in platform shoes. I meander, slowly, like a bird lame and crippled, and make my way slowly up the aisle upon which my whole purpose has been designed.

  Though it seems like it will take an eternity to pass through the corridor, I am soon at the threshold that separates me from the Dome itself.

  “Come,” a deep male voice says, “Honored Bride.”

  Honored Bride.

  I shiver in spite of the warmth surrounding me and raise my eyes to look at the world beyond.

  At first, I am blinded by how bright the world around me is. Then, slowly, details are revealed.

  Upon a raised dais stands a man in pure white robes beneath an archway with many beautiful flowers. To his left there are three women—whom I can see are Ceyonne, Wu, and another girl with caramel-colored skin—while to his right there stand three men of varying colors and creeds. What immediately captures my attention, however, is Daniel—who, in his black suit with a red tie and cuffs, is far more handsome than I could ever possibly imagine.

  I blink, swallow, try my hardest not to stare.

  Then I am advancing toward the steps that lead up to the dais and toward my bridesmaids’ sides.

  The man in the white robe—whom I can only imagine is the Father by his presence alone—straightens upon my approach and looks out at the crowd that has developed in the time that it has taken both of us to make our way down the aisle. He stares only for a moment before retrieving a thick black book from beneath his arm and opening it to a page that has been previously marked by a dog-eared page.

  “We have come here today,” he begins, “to join two souls in the harmony of the Process—to uphold both the law and tradition in light of the world and all its worries.

  “To my right stands a man—pure, honest and hard-working. He is to uphold the traditions that have come from the men of the Glittering City: to father, support, and give pride to those children he bears.

  “To my left stands a woman—pure, chaste, and of great-standing. She is to uphold the traditions that have been born of our country’s decline: to mother, raise, and give honor to the children that her husband will give her.

  “Both of these souls, lost and alone in this world, are to be bound today, in this revered place, in this great Dome where prosperity lies. And forever will they uphold the values of our world.”

  The Father turns to look at first myself, then Daniel, before gesturing once toward him, then a second time toward me.

  Appearing from either side is a single Gentlewoman, who bears within her hands a single box.

  “Daniel Lloyd Cross,” the Father says. “Do you take Kelendra Elizabeth Byron to be your lawfully-wedded wife: to hold and to cherish in sickness and in health, in hardship and in greatness, in joy and sadness, and in love and contempt?”

  Daniel’s eyes flicker to Mother Terra, who has appeared at my side. In that brief moment, I see a hesitation that cannot be hidden no matter what the cost. However—he parts his lips, slicks them with his tongue, and says, “I do.”

  “Kelendra Elizabeth Byron,” the Father then says. “Do you take Daniel Lloyd Cross to be your lawfully-wedded husband: to hold and to cherish in sickness and in health, in hardship and in greatness, in joy and sadness, and in love and contempt?”

  “I do,” I say, with less hesitation than I could have ever imagined. My conscience has already been torn down—dragged through the dirt and then back again. There is little I can do to sully it now, so I hold my head up high and face the man I am about to marry with pride and, I am loathe to say, a modicum of respect in my heart.

  “The rings, please,” the Father says.

  Mother Terra steps up alongside me and opens a box to reveal a ring with a single black band, within which are three stones: one ruby, one diamond, and another sapphire. “Take it,” she says, and I do, holding it carefully within my hands as if it is my child that has just been freshly born.

  “Please place the rings on each other’s hands,” the Father continues.

  I extend my left hand first, then push my ring forward to slide it upon the finger that connects his hand to his heart.

  Daniel turns, swallows, then opens the box Mother Merissa bears before lifting a ring from the box. He then takes my hand and slides a snow-white ring with the same red, white and blue stones onto my finger.r />
  I stare in bewilderment.

  I am about to be married—a bride at only sixteen.

  I lift my eyes to face Daniel’s and find, within their gray depths, a wilderness so untamed that I could never judge its merit.

  “Now,” the Father says, startling me from my reverie, “by the power invested in me by Countess Aa’eesha Dane and the Great South, I pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

  Daniel steps forward.

  He lifts my veil.

  He takes my upper arms.

  He looks into my eyes.

  He bows his head, bringing his face close to mine.

  Then we kiss.

  There is no passion here. It is simply skin on skin, flesh on flesh, lip on lip, and though outside the crowd goes wild—screaming things our world has been designed not to hear—I feel dead inside.

  There is little I can do but reach out, take hold of his arms, and hold myself there.

  This man—he is to be my partner; and from this moment forward, my husband as well.

  Seventeen

  Though the kiss seems to last forever, it is only moments after it has begun that we are pulled away by our respective Revered Mothers to face the onslaught of photojournalists and cameras that lie outside the Dome’s curved walls.

  “Remain calm,” Mother Terra whispers next to my ear. “Everything will be just fine.”

  “Is this customary?” I ask. “To look out and face the crowd after the ceremony?”

  “Yes, my dear. It is.”

  As I look out at the crowd, whose eyes and faces are lit with rage and fury and happiness and joy, I am once again struck with how haunting the whole ordeal is. We have, without a doubt, been put on display—us the creation, they the audience—and while on one hand we are the country’s greatest caricatures of perfection, on another we are simply animals scared out of our wits. Daniel’s left hand keeps trembling—as if the blood flow to his brain has been cut off by the ring that now encircles his finger. Meanwhile, my right hand flexes repeatedly, opening and closing and longing, I realize, for human companionship. At one point I am tempted to reach out and touch Daniel, if only to find solace in another’s palm, but find myself unable to do so in light of everything that has happened.